6. Kanyan
6
KANYAN
T he next night, the atmosphere in the hotel is noticeably different, like the air itself is holding its breath. I find myself back in the main hall, angling for another glimpse of the tightrope dancer.
The performance starts, but the moment the new dancer steps onto the wire, I know it isn’t her. Even from this distance, everything feels wrong. This woman is thin, her frame almost fragile, and there’s no trace of the confidence that the other girl carried so effortlessly the night before. Her movements are shaky, unsure, as though she’s terrified of the very wire she’s supposed to command.
I glance around the room, and it’s clear I’m not the only one noticing the difference. The audience is polite enough to clap, but the energy is muted, the excitement from last night nowhere to be found. People whisper to each other, their disappointment evident in their hushed tones and side glances.
My attention shifts away from the performance entirely. If tightrope girl is not here, where is she?
I weave through the scattered groups toward the lobby until I spot Yolanda, the event manager, stationed near the front desk. She’s scrawling furiously on a piece of paper, her movements sharp and impatient, before thrusting it into the concierge’s hands with a frustrated sigh.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as I approach, her tension radiating like a beacon.
She looks up, her annoyance spilling over. “You’d think the girl was the second coming, with the way people are acting!”
I glance around, trying to make sense of her comment, but all I catch is the concierge’s eyebrows shooting up in silent agreement.
“What happened?” I press.
“Lula canceled on us last minute,” Yolanda snaps, the words practically dripping with frustration. “I had to find someone to fill in.”
“Lula?” The name throws me off for a second until I piece it together. “Tightrope girl?”
“Who else?” Yolanda huffs, crossing her arms.
I frown, glancing back toward the performance room. The stand-in dancer is still struggling, her fear practically palpable even from here. Lula’s absence explains a lot, but not why she’s gone.
“Where is she?” I ask, the question coming out sharper than I intend.
Yolanda gives a dramatic shrug, blowing out an exasperated breath. “In her room—packing.”
“Why?”
“She wouldn’t say.” Yolanda rolls her eyes. “Something about needing to leave. Wouldn’t even indulge me for two minutes to talk her into staying. If I’d known she was that good, I’d never have hired her in the first place!”
That doesn’t make sense, but Yolanda’s next words put the pieces together.
“The guests are losing their minds. People are threatening to check out unless I get her back, and some are even asking if she’ll be here permanently.”
I ignore Yolanda’s scoff and ask, “What room is she in?”
“310,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. “If you can talk her into staying, be my guest. She’s impossible.”
I don’t waste another second.
The hallway leading to her room feels endless, each step weighted by a growing sense of unease. Something doesn’t sit right. I should’ve walked away after the alley, left her to her space, but I couldn’t. Not when the image of her trembling in the shadows kept flashing in my mind. Not when I knew that sucker was not going to give up so easily. They never do. Memories of my mother, the image of her all too clear in my mind, assail my senses.
I knock on her door, once, twice, then lean my ear closer when there’s no response. There’s a faint shuffling inside, hesitant, cautious. I know she’s in there, but she doesn’t come to the door.
“It’s Head of Security” I say, keeping my voice low as I lean into the door. “Either you open this door or I use the Master.”
I hear more shuffling, and it’s a few moments before the door cracks open just enough for her to peer out. The dim light from the hall illuminates her face, and the sight hits me like a gut punch. A bruise blooms across her left cheekbone, dark and angry against her pale skin. Her eye is swollen, the edges tinged purple.
I’m quiet for the longest time before I speak again, trying to keep my voice measured.
“Who did this?” My voice is tight, barely controlled, my fists curling at my sides.
She hesitates, her fingers gripping the edge of the door like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. “It’s nothing,” she says, her voice flat. “Please-I just want to be left alone.”
“Alone?” The word claws out of my throat. The thought of her enduring this, of someone laying their hands on her, sends my blood boiling. My chest tightens, a memory forcing its way in—my mother, cowering in a corner, her face bruised and swollen from another one of her boyfriends who couldn’t control his fists. “Did he do this to you?”
“He’ll do much worse if you don’t go away,” she whispers, a warning plea.
“Lula.” Her name is a resignation. “Let me in.”
She hesitates, her eyes darting down the hall before she steps back, opening the door just wide enough for me to slip inside.
There’s a single suitcase tucked against the wall and a pair of ballet slippers on the nightstand. It feels temporary, like everything she owns could be packed up in an instant.
I turn to her, my anger barely contained. “Was it him?”
She freezes, her arms crossing over her stomach. Her silence is answer enough. She knows exactly who I’m talking about.
“I’ll kill him,” I growl, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal. I should’ve killed him the minute he laid a hand on her before.
“Stop,” she snaps, her voice cutting through the storm brewing in my chest. “Just stop. You can’t save me.”
I whirl on her, my jaw clenched. “He’s not going to keep hurting you.”
Her laugh is bitter, sharp. “You think this is about one guy? You think you can just swoop in and fix everything? I’ve been dealing with people like Derin my whole life. Men who want to own me, who won’t take no for an answer.”
Her words cut deeper than I expect, but I hold my ground. Her blue eyes glisten, the tears threatening to spill but stubbornly held back. She hugs her arms tightly, her fingers pressing into her skin like she’s trying to hold herself together. Her shoulders slump under an invisible weight, and for the first time, I see the weariness etched into her face, a kind of tired that sleep can’t fix.
“You don’t understand,” she says, her voice trembling. “You can’t understand.”
She doesn’t know how wrong she is. She has no idea just how much I understand…just how much I’ve lived through, watching my mother live her life in a similar scenario. The memories rise unbidden, sharp and unforgiving, but I tell myself that this time, it’s different.
I clench my fists at my sides, a silent vow forming in my chest. Little does she know, I understand better than most people ever could. I couldn’t save my mother, but I’ll be damned if I walk away and let her walk down a path of no return. Not on my watch.